


Swarm

by Not_You



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Other, Weirdness, Xeno, asexual reproduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:30:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob decides his adopted swarm is too small.  Bob does his part, and the others follow his valorous example.  Also, Ratchet is grumpy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swarm

"I know! It's enough to make you want to start budding!"

Bob chitters to himself as he clicks along at Sunstreaker's heels. His vocabulary isn't very large, but he understands 'budding' and his master's happy tone. It's nice that the fighting is over. Bob doesn't like being shot at. It's not nice that his adopted swarm is so small, though. There should be more of them. He nuzzles Sunstreaker's leg and trills happily at the pat he receives in return before skittering off. Bob has a mission.

Hours later, Sunstreaker is starting to panic. There's no sign of Bob anywhere, and he can't believe the little guy would run away from home with just a pat on the head.

"Bob?" He calls again, vocalizer turned all the way up. "Bob! Here, boy! Come on!"

"Streaker..." Sideswipe puts a hand on his shoulder. "I don't think he's out here."

"Then something must have happened to him!" He shrugs the hand away, and walks deeper into the woods. "Bob? Come on, buddy!"

There's a faint, exhausted little chirp not far ahead, and he runs over as fast as he can, alt useless on this terrain.

Bob is very tired, but he hears his master calling and tries to answer, because he certainly can't move. Luckily it's loud enough for Sunstreaker's audials to pick up, and soon he's crouching at the entrance to the cave. "There you are!" Bob chitters and feebly waves his antennae, trying to crawl forward. Sunstreaker pulls him out and starts checking him for damage. Bob does his best to trill reassuringly. He's not damaged, just in dire need of recharge and fuel.

"Is he okay?"

"Looks like it, just really tired." Sunstreaker cuddles Bob. "Did you start chasing rabbits again?" And it's true, the little organics are fun to run with, but that's not what Bob has been doing today. Today has been _important_ , which is why he squawks and struggles when Sunstreaker stands up. He can't leave his eggs all alone! He has to flail and agitate for a long moment with all the pitiful amount of energy he has left, but finally Sunstreaker crouches again and scans the cave.

"What is it, Streaker?" There's no room for Sideswipe to do his own scan, and he has to wait for his twin to pull his head out of the cave, crawling backward and looking deeply perturbed.

"It's... you're gonna have to look for yourself."

Sideswipe does, and yelps in astonishment. The cave is full of sparkbuds! They're growing by the moment, each one sipping hungrily at its little dab of refined core energon within a transparent bubble. "Primus! There must be three dozen in here!"

Bob chirps, pleased with himself. He may be very tired, but no one can say he hasn't done his part for the swarm. Since he refuses to leave, Sunstreaker stays with him and sends Sideswipe back for some supplies and to call off the installation-wide Bob-hunt.

It only takes a week or so for Bob's eggs to hatch, and he proudly leads his new insecticons into the base, chittering. Ironhide complains and threatens to step on them, but his field is, as usual, softer than his words. Bob knows he wouldn't really hurt any of them unless they started eating everything in sight like they did back on Cybertron, and Bob has already told them that's not allowed. His swarm quickly gets used to the hatchlings, absently patting them as they skitter by. They all like Sunstreaker best of course, because he belongs to Bob, but they get along quite well with the others, and several of them go scampering after Prime whenever he goes by. Today Bob follows them because Sunstreaker is getting cleaned and polished and he's vain so that it takes a long time.

"I suppose you're appropriate witnesses, since your creator gave me the idea." Bob scampers joyfully into Prime's quarters, startling him and making him laugh. "Well, speak of the insecticon." He pats Bob gently, then settles on his berth and opens his chestplates. Inside his spark pulses too brightly to look at, and Bob squints his optics, curious. Prime offlines his optics and groans. His spark flares like a supernova, and then there are two. And then it flares again and again and Bob can't count very high, but that was a lot of flares. His creations chitter anxiously when Prime finally stops, slumping over with a pained and exhausted groan. They climb the berth for a better look, and find Prime's spark dimmer than usual, orbited by ten tiny, painfully bright new ones. Bob makes an inquiring noise, and Prime chuckles weakly, patting Bob with one hand and closing his chest with the other.

Over the next few weeks Bob and his hatchlings witness many similar scenes, and within a month almost everyone is walking around full of tiny new sparks. All of them become a little gentler, a little more careful with themselves and others because the extra energy expenditure makes them easier to damage. Rachet grumbles and swears, threatening to dig out their budding protocols with no pain-blocking codes. They know he doesn't mean it, and in fact only makes terrible threats to balance out all the ways he spoils them all with the richest high grade and the best additives, cossetting their every need and slightest whim. As a medic, he really can't help himself, and as much as he complains about all the extra checkups everyone needs, his field is a wash of love and joy when he opens someone up and bathes in the light of the new little sparks.

Bob is proud of himself as he helps Rachet make the form-beds. His example has inspired his swarm, and now there will be many more of them. He stands at the ready with a basket of small parts hanging off of each spike, Rachet reaching in and grabbing whichever piece he needs as he assembles the complicated little wave emitters and chemical valves. Bob of course doesn't understand any of this, but he can tell that the beds are very important. Like the skin of an egg is important.

By the time the beds are made, everyone carrying new sparks has started to subtly swell, limbs getting thicker, torsos heavier with new protometal. It isn't very visually noticeable, but it screams in their fields and over any kind of body scan, a joyful shriek of excess and new life. They devour energy, but it's peacetime, so they've had the resources to harness a supernova to make nearly endless cubes of the highest grade. They haven't planned on telling the humans anything, and are blindsided to see Carly squinting up at Optimus as he sips a cube.

"Optimus?"

"Yes?"

"…I know this is a weird question, but seriously. Are you guys pregnant?" Optimus chokes, glossa channels temporarily paralyzed in surprise, and Bumblebee laughs. "I know it's silly, but so is the idea of Transformers getting fat, and you are!"

Optimus laughs, spraying energon back into the cube, careful not to waste it. "I suppose we are pregnant, seen through mammalian eyes."

"Seriously?"

"We now have time and energy enough to repopulate."

"I guess that makes sense. So how does it work?"

"We're getting fat with protometal," Bumblebee says, still giggling. "It's the base of a Transformer's whole body."

"Wow."

"Once we have enough," Prime says, taking over so Bumblebee can start on a cube of his own, "We will eject it into the form-beds, giving a portion to each of the new sparks we carry. Once that happens, chemical signals and additives will prompt the production of more protometal as well as armor, forming the body."

"So they're like, clones of you?"

"To a degree. They will be very like their creators, but different as well."

"Cool." She grins. "Are they gonna be baby robots, or do they come out full-grown?"

Bumblebee laughs again. "They come out full-size and with all the basic information, but I guess they're a little like babies. Curious and inexperienced."

"Well, I'll have to come by and help teach them about humans." She settles next to Bumblebee and asks countless questions about the process. Bob skitters in and lets her pat him, always enjoying the feel of soft human skin for the novelty it is. He purrs and settles down beside her, unspeakably proud of himself for leading his swarm in the right direction.

The time finally comes when everyone has enough extra protometal to start a generous form for each new spark. Ratchet has been holding them back until all of them are bloated and bad-tempered, and even now will only let one of them release it at a time no matter how much they complain.

"You need supervision, and I'm the only one qualified and you'll just have to put up with it!" Ratchet barks, and leads Bumblebee to the medbay. They at least can't fault the _order_ Ratchet is going in. He's working his way up from smallest to largest, the larger frames bearing less proportional extra weight. Poor Bumblebee can barely stagger. As usual, he's matched Prime in spirit if not in metal. Most of them had the sense to stop at somewhere from three to half a dozen new sparks, but Bee is carrying ten, and moves like it.

"Ratchet, why do I always overdo things?" He groans, hauling himself up to the form-beds.

"Because you're built that way, Primus help us. Now, give me your hand." It's a simple transformation, and Bumblebee picks it up in a moment. A conduit for protometal opens in the center of his palm, and he fights to control the rush. The pressure is high but he cuts it off before more than eleven percent of the mass can flow out. Not bad, and the first-formed is always the largest unless there are conduit problems anyway. He waddles down the row of beds, visibly shrinking as the excess he's gathered pours out. Despite the high pressure it's all bright and healthy, and Ratchet just shakes his head in amazement at how well-designed minibots really are. Bee is weak and shaky by the tenth form, but feeling much better as his whole body subtly realigns. Ratchet gives him a moment to rest and a small, concentrated energon cube before they move to the next stage.

Releasing the sparks can be more dangerous, but there's little likelihood of them being interrupted or attacked. He supports Bumblebee as he opens his spark chamber and lets the first one float out and into its place in the center of the bed, where everything will be built around it.

The process takes a long time for ten beds, and Bumblebee stumbles off to recharge at the end of it. Despite all the cursing from the others, bloated and sore and impatient, Ratchet takes his time securing these first beds, whispering the secret blessing only those with medic coding know to each of them before opening the medbay again.

It's a long time before the place is quiet. Optimus insists on going last, of course, but finally even Rachet's fearless leader is gone, and it's just him and the softly murmuring beds. They make a low, sweet, humming sound as they work, new bodies growing around those bright little sparks. He smiles, and slides a smaller bed out from beneath the others. Even as the only medic around, he hadn't been able to resist once all the others had started. He carefully pours out his own little bit of protometal, and then transfers the little spark, just the right size to power a microbot, that has been hiding behind his own all this time. He closes the bed, and then looks around as his audials pick up skittering.

"There you are, you little slagger. C'mere." Bob skitters over, curious about the smaller bed. "See this?" Ratchet says, and Bob does see. "This one is gonna be small enough for you and your little swarm to knock over. Don't, or I'll deactivate every last one of you."

Ratchet never really _means_ his death threats or there wouldn't be anyone left here, but Bob chitters his assent, and nuzzles the little form-bed, marking its occupant as a smaller member of the swarm that should be protected. Ratchet pats him, and Bob skitters away to curl up with Sunstreaker again, his master tired from bringing just six new Transformers into the world.


End file.
